


Artwork

by MyChemicalRachel



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 06:42:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1888833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyChemicalRachel/pseuds/MyChemicalRachel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank is Gerard's muse... And maybe just a little bit more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Artwork

Crimson streaks stain the pure white canvas. A single stark blemish against the alabaster, tainting the impossibly dull material with it’s alluring hue. Deep, dark, mesmerizing red, thicker than the water settled next to me, but not quite as dense as the acrylic resting untouched in the corner. That first mark, the initial shock of color on the void page, and the chill that tingles it’s way up my spine at the sight of it; This is my favorite part. Well, my second favorite part, I guess.

My favorite part is already over.

I sigh contently, letting my eyes drift closed and focusing on just the weight of the brush between my fingers. Heavy enough to know it’s there, though not weighing me down. Flashes of the previous scene dance across my vision and a minute smile settles on my pale lips. He was beautiful. He was perfect. He was a work of art all by himself. And now, he was my muse. He was my inspiration and my intent and my creation.

I hum softly, a mindless tune, and dip the paintbrush into the red again. Adding another dark streak across the page, more scenes filter through me.

The image of him, lying back and exposed on the bed, his flesh pale against the black sheets tangling beneath him. His lush pink lips parted in a silent formation of my name. “ _Gerard_ …”

Another streak. It’s beginning to dry already, the vibrant red smearing thin against the canvas and becoming a rusted chestnut color. On the palette, it becomes only darker, shaded black and red mingling and clotting. I must work fast, I know this, and I drag another brush stroke down the page.

His presence, almost physical even now, swells with warmth inside of me. That beautiful human being… Frank.

He hadn’t screamed, not like I imagined he would. Of course, he was terrified-- Anyone would be in the face of death-- but I made it nearly as pleasurable for him as it had been for me. The faces of uncontrolled pain and arousal intertwining, mixing to create pure ecstasy, just a few short-lived moments of unadulterated eroticism that burned images into my brain. Images that, as I painted now, played on repeat in my head.

When I had offered him this very opportunity, he was frightened. What I was offering to him was something so massive, so final and ultimate, that it shocked him. It terrified him, and for a few long moments, I believed he would say no. Not that his refusal would have stopped me. It had never stopped me before. But I could see the decision sinking it, the exact moment when realization dawned that he wanted this almost as much as I needed it. For Frank, it was a choice; For myself, it was an infernal hunger, a desperate craving, and an undying need to have him like this. To have all of him.

And, after a minutes hesitation, he had nodded in agreement.

I didn’t ask his reasoning. I hadn’t been bothered by the sudden dull hazel of his usually bright eyes. He was choosing to give himself to me in every way possible and I wasn’t about to argue. It was a physical churning in my stomach, aching and pulsating and clawing it’s way up my throat in a frantic attempt to be released. And so I readied by equipment, allowing Frank time to prepare himself as well. And then it began.

The canvas before me is covered messily in the most incredible piece I’ve ever created. Lazy eyes stare back at me, narrowed and creased under perfectly shaped eyebrows. A rugged jaw line, shaded slightly with the drying substance draws my attention and I smile. It wasn’t nearly finished, but it was coming along rather nicely. Perhaps I was biased and I wondered what Frank would think if he was here. As if on cue, I could feel the warmth rush over me again, and I knew Frank was here. I sighed and brought the brush to the page again.

I remembered tracing the ink staining his supple flesh, first with my fingers and then with my lips. It was tantalizing, addicting, and I found myself craving more. He grabbed fistfuls of the sheets, panting and sweating and cursing in a way that was captivating to watch, but I needed so much to feel those hands on me. Gently, I led them to my own body and his nails dug into my shoulders instead. It was when I felt the first trickles of blood moving down my back from where his fingernails bit into the flesh only just too much that my head began spinning. My eyesight became unfocused and I could concentrate on nothing more than the man under me, the pleading look that clouded his lust filled gaze. I knew he was ready.

“It’s going to hurt.” I whispered breathily in his ear. I could feel his body tense, bare skin sliding against mine, and brushed a few fingers through his hair in a soothing gesture. “It’s okay,” I told him. “It will all be okay. Do you trust me?”

Frank swallowed hard, nails digging in a long stretch down my back once more and eliciting a low moan from the back of my throat before he nodded. “Yes, Gerard. I trust you.”

It was something that made Frank different from the others. Frank was not the first willing participant I’d ever had, he was certainly not the first artist or the first eager to make himself into the art, but he was honest. I could see through the terror playing plainly across his delicate features, unmasked by the passion, and somehow emphasized by it. He was embracing the fear and twisting it into seduction, enticing me and somehow making him even more beautiful.

I positioned myself between his legs and they immediately wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer. The simple contact wasn’t enough for Frank and he watched me with a begging gaze, whimpering a soft moan, though I couldn’t be sure if he was more excited for the beginning… Or the end.

As I pushed into him, his mouth fell open in pure ecstasy. I took that moment, his vulnerability and pleasure, as my chance to make the first injection. My hand, steady as it had ever been, plunged the needle into the vein of his arm. The tube hung loose, empty and hollow, leading toward the machine placed precisely on the floor. Frank’s face contorted with the discomfort, but he said nothing, only pushed himself closer to me. I couldn’t wait, the pressure to continue urging me to move at a faster pace, and I allowed myself to grab the second needle. My hand shook only slightly when I pushed it into place on the opposite arm. The familiar excitement was filling me, swarming in and around me, and I couldn’t seem to calm myself. I’ll be calm after this, I had promised myself. The serenity will be able to overtake me once this is over.

I was fully inside of Frank at that point, my legs shaking, heart pounding, body sweating. His face was a mixture of nerves and content. He was happy. He was scared, but that was understandable. And he was ready. I leaned over him, brushing my fingertips across his jaw, memorizing the curve of his face, and kissed him gently on the lips. When I pulled away, his eyes were open. He was watching me, half-lidded eyes seeming more intense than I’d ever seen them, and he nodded only slightly. Flicking on the switch of the machine, I turned my complete attention to Frank and the task at hand. The low buzz in the background could barely be heard over the moaning pants falling from both his and my own slick lips. I could smell it almost immediately, the scent of iron filling my lungs and making my breaths even shallower. It was addicting, the way the blood flowed from his beautiful form, filling the right tube with the crimson liquid while the left introduced something much more deadly into his veins. It didn’t take long-- it never did. The formaldehyde spread quickly, replacing the necessary fluid and emptying Frank of his internal beauty. The red filled my vision, pressing me closer and closer to release. And when I finally did, letting my eyes drift open and land on Frank’s still form beneath me, I froze, entranced by the visage. It was strange, the way his eyes seemed to lack their usual color, his pale lips parted in silence. When I stood, turning off the machine and detaching the tubes, I allowed myself to close his eyes and cover his body with the black sheet.

And then my work began.

When I emptied the contents of the machine into a collection of jars, all labeled in neat writing with the word ‘Frank,’ I reached for my clean palette. I had to get started right away, while the blood was fresh and warm. So I set up a canvas in the middle of the room, keeping my back to the bed and the lifeless figure I knew rested there. I didn’t want to focus on his body anymore. It was merely that; A body. Frank was on my palette, staining my brush with the crystalline crimson, streaking my canvas as a portrait of himself. He was my inspiration and my creation. He was immortal. He was everything without having to be anything at all. And he would be eternal, with me forever, in the way I loved the most. As my art.


End file.
